


a pleasant surprise

by simplyclockwork



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Apologies, Birthday, Birthday Fluff, Catharsis, Feels, First Kiss, Forgiveness, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Mary Watson who? Sorry don't know her, Mild Angst, POV Sherlock Holmes, Post-Reichenbach, Season 4 what?, Sherlock - Freeform, Surprise Party, The Events of Season 3 Did Not Happen, reconnecting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-06
Updated: 2021-01-06
Packaged: 2021-03-17 05:27:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28594731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/simplyclockwork/pseuds/simplyclockwork
Summary: Sherlock's first birthday after his return from the dead.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 84
Kudos: 249
Collections: Happy Birthday Sherlock Holmes - 6/1/2021, Sherlock and John Stories that Ease the Soul





	a pleasant surprise

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Приятный сюрприз](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28628127) by [Little_Unicorn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Little_Unicorn/pseuds/Little_Unicorn)
  * Translation into Русский available: [Приятный сюрприз (a pleasant surprise)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28850667) by [Lesli_rus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lesli_rus/pseuds/Lesli_rus)



> Happy 167th Birthday to Sherlock Holmes!
> 
> \---
> 
> This fic is canon-compliant up to the end of S2 E3. But when Sherlock comes back, there's no Mary, and John is still living at 221B.

A surprise party. They’d thrown him a surprise party.

After spending the day in the lab stewing over the inevitable forward march of time, Sherlock returned to 221B in a pensive mood. In his maudlin state of mind, he didn’t anticipate the shouts of _surprise!_ that greeted him the second he stepped into the flat. The shock of it halted Sherlock in the doorway, and he stood frozen in place.

Mrs. Hudson swept forward, trilling his name as she threw her arms around him. He still didn’t move. Standing there in his landlady’s arms, Sherlock blinked over her shoulder at the expectant faces staring back at him. He saw Lestrade, Molly, Angelo, Mike Stamford, his parents and brother. The last wore a sour expression. Sherlock thought it perfectly matched the feeling of panic rising within himself.

And there, sitting in his chair with a small, uncertain smile, was John. Their eyes met, and he offered a questioning grimace. Even with two years spent apart after Sherlock’s false suicide, they could still communicate with just a look. It wasn’t as easy as it once was, but possible.

John’s expression said, _you okay?_

Sherlock, staring back at him, narrowed his eyes just enough to communicate, _it’s fine._

The small smile on John’s face slowly grew until it reached his eyes. They glimmered, and Sherlock realized then that he would put up with the party. He would pretend to enjoy himself if it meant John kept smiling at him like that. He’d only been back from his mission for a few months. John was still working toward forgiving him. Any chance to coax out that forgiveness was an opportunity to be seized. Though John had said he forgave Sherlock, Sherlock knew that wasn’t entirely true.

He didn’t blame him. John had a lot to forgive, and Sherlock was simply grateful for the chance. If earning that forgiveness involved eating cake, forcing a smile, and letting people sing _Happy Birthday_ to him without complaint, then Sherlock would do it.

He’d do it for John. Just as he’d done everything those two years he spent away. For John.

For John, Sherlock powered through the uncomfortable, pedantic nature of birthday celebrations. He grimaced through the off-tune serenade and let Mrs. Hudson put a sparkly hat on his head. It mussed up his curls, but Sherlock grinned and bore it. He even blew out the candles, kept his mouth shut when everyone teased him about getting older and ate a slice of cake. The last wasn’t entirely unpleasant: red velvet with dark chocolate. John had good taste.

Sherlock inhaled his piece in record time and pushed back from the table. The moment everyone dispersed into groups, enjoying food and beverages, he made his escape. Sneaking through the kitchen, Sherlock disappeared up to the third floor and through the window that led him out onto the roof.

It was sloped and not entirely safe, but he found a spot and settled. Evening was nearing. Legs drawn up to his chest, arms wrapped tight around his knees, Sherlock waited for the sun to set.

John found him fifteen minutes later. The golden hour was just beginning to ease over the city, and Sherlock didn’t look away from the view. He sat perfectly still, listening to John’s quiet breath as he paused.

It was mere seconds before Sherlock heard the window slide further open, followed by John making his careful way out onto the roof. His movements sounded a little strange, making Sherlock look over his shoulder. He immediately saw why. John was moving carefully on his knees, his hands occupied by a bottle of wine and two glasses.

He finally scooted to Sherlock’s side with a cautious smile. Leaving a few inches of space between them, John stuck the wine bottle between his knees. “Hey,” he said, raising his eyes to meet Sherlock’s inquisitive gaze.

“John.” Sherlock blinked. Even with the wine bottle and glasses, he was surprised and couldn’t quite understand why John had joined him. John liked people, Sherlock tolerated them. It seemed strange for them both to be absent from a party taking place in their own flat. “Is something wrong?”

“Actually,” John said, raising an eyebrow, “I came to ask you the same.”

Sherlock looked away and pursed his lips. As if sensing that he was gathering his thoughts, John didn’t press. Instead, he turned his attention to pouring the wine. He did so with his tongue caught between his teeth, juggling first one wine glass, then the other, handing Sherlock the first once he’d sloshed the aromatic red liquid inside.

Still keeping his silence, Sherlock accepted the offer with a wordless nod. John tucked the bottle back between his thighs and raised his glass in a silent toast. Sherlock mirrored the gesture, and they drank. The wine was deep and rich, with just a hint of sweetness. Sherlock let it roll over his tongue, savouring the complex flavour.

They sat quietly, watching the golden hour fade into a burning sunset. There was something almost peaceful about the moment, broken only by John’s quiet, “So.”

Sherlock looked at him. He was painted gold by the setting sun, the fiery hues of the horizon picking out the silvery-greys in his hair. Sherlock let his eyes linger, admiring the sight much as he’d admired the taste of the wine. He only dropped his gaze when John cleared his throat.

“You okay, then?”

Fingertips tracing the sleek curve of the wine glass, Sherlock lifted one shoulder in a half-shrug. “Never been one for parties.” Brow furrowed, he reflected over the statement and amended, “Not that I don’t appreciate it.” He chanced a glance at John, breathing a quiet sigh of relief when he saw John looked unbothered by his words. “It was… a kind gesture.”

John grimaced. His laugh was quiet and a little rueful, and he sipped at his wine before nodding. “Yeah, I thought I might be a bit off base with the surprise party. But, you know, I…” he paused and frowned. Eyes on his glass, his smile faded. He swirled the wine with a slow twist of his wrist. When he spoke, his voice was reflective. “I never knew your birthday, you know. Before you… well. Before.” John cleared his throat. His frown deepened. The wine sloshed against the sides of the glass, and he softened his hand.

He didn’t meet Sherlock’s eyes when Sherlock shifted to face him, providing his full attention. He felt a mixed pang of guilt and unease at the topic. Something like gratitude passed over John’s face, and he went on.

“Those two years that you were gone, I visited your grave. Frequently.” John swallowed. There was a flicker of discomfort in his expression. It faded into a solemn gaze when he finally raised his eyes to meet Sherlock’s. “All those times I went, I thought about… well. So many things. I thought about the time we’d spent together, the cases, the people we met. That time you rode the tube after skewering a bloody pig with a harpoon.” A small, amused smile curled his lips, and Sherlock found himself mirroring the expression without thought.

But it slipped away again just as fast, and John grew sombre. He looked out over the city, his forehead creased. The sunset had faded away, and the air was thick with blue-tinged smog as twilight preceded the oncoming night.

“Anyways. I spent all that time spent staring at your tombstone and realized I’d never known when your birthday was. And there it was, right at my feet with the date you died, and it was too late for it to matter.” John closed his eyes for a moment, glancing at Sherlock when they flashed open again. “I hated that, you know? Knowing that I’d missed it. I don’t know why that, of all things, was what stuck with me, but it did. Drove me a little mad, actually. Then… you came back.”

Sherlock grimaced at the memory. He’d walked into Baker Street, expecting John to be gone, moved out and moved on with his life, only to find that hadn’t been the case. He’d stumbled through the door, back from the dead and barely upright, and there had been John. Sitting on the couch at 2 am, a forgotten mug of tea in hand, a look of shock on his face.

It had taken far too long for Sherlock to convince him that he wasn’t hallucinating. That he wasn’t the ghost of himself that lived in John’s head. But he’d managed, and John had believed him. Then had come the anger. The shouting and the accusations, the _why_ and the _how could you?_

And, finally, the tears. John had exhausted his anger until his voice went raw and silent, and he had collapsed onto the couch, collapsed into himself, with soundless pain. Sherlock had been able to do little but stand there, John pushing him away whenever he tried to come close. In the end, Sherlock sank onto the floor at John’s feet and waited. He’d sat in silence until John’s anger and sorrow ran dry. Then John had climbed the stairs to his bedroom, leaving Sherlock alone in the living room without a word.

It had been a slow, rocky climb to where they were now. Rough-edged and uncertain, but speaking. Trying to make things work when so much remained unspoken.

Now, sitting with bare inches of space between them, Sherlock felt like they were still miles apart. A little over two months since he’d returned, and they never seemed to bridge that gap. There was no amount of reaching out that would let him find John.

The weight of those memories, of that time spent apart, stretched wide as a ravine between them.

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock said. His voice was quiet, thick with regret. The words tasted bitter, but he cleared his throat and repeated them, “I’m sorry, John.”

John sat stiff and still beside him. But the rigidity faded in the next moment, his shoulders lowering as he nodded. “I know,” he said, eyes fixed on his wine glass. “I know you are.”

They were quiet for a moment before John spoke again.

“Mycroft told me why you left.”

Sherlock jolted, turning to stare at him. The movement shifted his equilibrium, and he grabbed at the shingles beneath him to regain his balance. “He what?”

John’s gaze slowly drifted to Sherlock’s. His eyes were dark and impossible to read, but there was something there. Something Sherlock might have been able to make sense of if he could manage to believe what he was seeing.

“He told me why you faked your death.” John favoured him with a long, evaluating look. “He explained about Moriarty’s threats. The snipers.” His eyes dropped back to the wine glass, and he frowned. “He said you died to keep us alive. To take down Moriarty’s network. To keep us safe. Mrs. Hudson, Greg… me.” John’s voice faded, dwindling until Sherlock felt he needed to say something.

Swallowing, he tilted his head in a small nod. “That is true.” The words were awkward in his mouth, but Sherlock forced them out.

John stared at him. He stared for so long that Sherlock began to fidget, and then he looked away.

“After Mycroft explained, I wondered why you never told me. I thought about that for a while, actually. And I think I figured it out.”

One hand clasped tightly around the delicate stem of his wine glass, Sherlock forced his grip to ease. He blinked and hummed before he said, “You did?”

John was looking directly at him now, his gaze unflinching. “Yeah,” he said in a strange, tight voice. “Yeah, I think I did.” He stared hard at Sherlock as if ensuring he had his full attention before continuing.

Sherlock made it clear that he had it, his eyes unblinking and fixated on John’s face.

“I think you let me be angry. You knew I had things to work through, and you let me. Yeah?” Sherlock nodded, confused, but John went on as if he’d understood. “I think maybe you knew I needed that. To process all those feelings. I think you thought telling me why you’d done it would only make me feel guilty. That I’d hate myself for the anger and for keeping you at arm's length since. And you know what, Sherlock?”

Sherlock shook his head. He couldn’t seem to find his words, but John waited until he did. Wetting his lips, Sherlock murmured, “What?”

John’s expression softened. “At first, I was angry about that. I didn’t understand why you didn’t just tell me. If you had, I thought maybe I wouldn’t have been so angry for so long. Maybe I would have gotten over myself sooner.” He snorted and shook his head. “I stewed over that for a few weeks. But then… then I realized something. I realized you were right.” John frowned, tilting his head in quiet disbelief. “You knew what I needed when I didn’t even know, and you know what else?” His face cleared, and he stared hard at Sherlock. “I think you’ve always known me better than I know myself. I think you have all along, Sherlock. Right from day one.”

“That’s not—” Sherlock began, but John cut him off.

“No, Sherlock. It’s alright. I didn’t see it then, but I see it now. I understand. You’d think I’d have figured it out before, what with all those days I spent staring at your grave. But I’m slow sometimes, Sherlock.” John offered a rueful smile, a self-deprecating chuckle. “To be honest, I’m really… well, I’m shite at the emotional stuff. But you know that. Of course you do. You’re Sherlock Holmes: you know everything.”

Sherlock tried again, but he barely managed to say, “John, I don’t—” before John held up a hand and silenced him.

“Just… hear me out, yeah?” His eyebrows rose, his expression taking on something of a plea. “Listen to what I have to say, then you can say whatever you like. Okay?”

Struck quiet by John’s fervent words, Sherlock nodded. He wanted to reply, but he pressed his lips together and held his tongue.

John smiled. “Thanks.” He breathed out a loud sigh and shook his head. “It took me a while, Sherlock, but I got there in the end. As I said, I understand now. I see what you did, why you did it. Why you came back the way you did, and why you didn’t explain yourself. And you did that for me. Not just for me, but—”

Despite agreeing not to interrupt, Sherlock couldn’t stop the words. They rose in his throat and escaped before he could draw them back.

“Yes, just for you,” he said. John went silent and still, and Sherlock winced. But John tipped his head in a gentle invitation for him to continue, and he did. “All of it,” he said in a soft voice. “I did all of it for you, John.”

John sat and looked at him for so long, Sherlock began to wonder if he’d turned to stone. He’d just started to tilt forward to look closer, a frown creasing his brow when John blinked. He breathed out a long, shaky breath and nodded.

“I know,” he said quietly. “I know that, now. Seeing you downstairs, pretending you enjoyed the surprise party for my sake, even though I could see that you hated it…” John pursed his lips and laughed. It was a rough, surprised sound. “Yeah, that… that was when I really saw it. That you cared. Seeing you do that for my sake…” He sighed. “Sherlock. I’m sorry it took me so long.”

Sherlock looked away. Teeth pressing into his bottom lip, he shook his head. “It’s not your fault. You’re not a mindreader.”

The light teasing earned him a soft snort from John. “No, I’m not,” he agreed. “That’s always been you.”

This silence was more comfortable. Sherlock sipped his wine, and John sat quietly at his side as the night fell upon them. When their glasses emptied, John refilled both. Sherlock handed his over at John’s insistence. Their fingers brushed when he took it back. John’s touch lingered, first on his fingertips, then on his arm, where his hand settled.

Sherlock waited for him to speak, but John didn’t say a word. He simply sat there with his hand on Sherlock’s arm, the contact barely more than a brush of fingertips, and looked at him.

“John?”

Eyelids dropping in a slow blink, John’s eyes moved over Sherlock’s face. They touched upon his brow, slipped down his cheek, paused on his lips and rose to meet Sherlock’s curious gaze. “Hmm?”

A small crease furrowed Sherlock’s forehead, and he schooled it away. Clearing his throat, he said, “What happens now?”

John shrugged and took a long, slow sip from his wine. Sherlock thought he might go mad with the waiting, but he forced himself to remain patient. Lowering the wine glass, John’s tongue darted out, catching a small drop of red from the corner of his lips.

Sherlock stared at his mouth. It took immense willpower to drag his eyes back to John’s. What he saw there made his breath catch.

John’s gaze was warm. His eyelids were lowered to half-mast, his face lightly flushed by the wine.

“Now,” he said, holding Sherlock’s gaze, “we start over.”

Sherlock pressed his lips together and lifted his eyebrows. He felt warm himself, the tension in his muscles coaxed away by the wine. He wasn’t drunk, not even tipsy, but refreshingly at ease. The alcohol was partly to blame, but Sherlock thought it was mainly the atmosphere between them. Something had eased, softened the way John’s eyes softened as he watched Sherlock puzzle over the statement.

“Sherlock,” John murmured, “stay with me.” His quiet voice drew Sherlock back to the moment, out of his head and into the small, shared space between them. John was closer now, the inches separating them reduced to nearly nothing. His hand still rested on Sherlock’s arm, and John’s palm brushed up Sherlock’s sleeve, to his shoulder. Sherlock blinked at the contact before leaning into it. The gesture felt instinctive, and he was rewarded with John’s smile.

They came together, first sharing space, then breath. John’s lips brushed Sherlock’s cheek, moved to his mouth with fleeting contact that steadied. He gripped Sherlock’s arm, body shifting forward as his other hand glided up Sherlock’s back. It drifted in the dip between Sherlock’s shoulder blades. Played up the curve of his neck until his fingers tangled in the curls at Sherlock’s nape.

Sherlock froze at the feeling of John’s lips against his own. His eyes, wide and stunned and unblinking, fixed on John’s face. It was mere inches from his own, close enough that Sherlock could make out the pale hue of John’s eyelashes. His eyes were closed, and Sherlock finally forced his own shut.

John began to lean back. Sherlock, having done nothing but sit there like a statue, panicked. The contact was too brief, too fleeting to commit to memory as his mind rushed to catch up to the sensory input. With his heart beating out a wild rhythm in his chest, Sherlock clutched the front of John’s shirt. He dug his nails into the fabric and tugged him back. John made a quiet, startled sound before he cottoned on and went loose, letting himself be pulled. Their mouths slotted together, and Sherlock focused on the feeling of John’s mouth on his. On the way, John’s lips curled into a smile against his own.

The kiss was slow, exploratory. John let Sherlock take the lead, tilting John’s head to the side as he tested how to deepen the kiss. When his tongue flicked out to taste the sweep of John’s bottom lip, John breathed out a heavy exhale through his nose. His mouth opened, and Sherlock felt a fleeting wave of dizziness before following the tantalizing warmth of John’s breath. He chased John’s tongue, brushed it with his own and released a soft, hungry sound.

It was like a spark to tinder. John answered Sherlock’s quiet noise with a moan and tightened his grip in Sherlock’s hair. Using the hold in Sherlock’s curls, he tipped Sherlock’s head back and kissed his way down his neck. Sherlock’s eyes, tightly closed, flew open. His eyelids fluttered, pupils dilating at both the surge of lust that raced through him and the dark of night that filled his gaze.

He tried desperately to catalogue every second of John’s mouth on his skin: the teasing brush of his lips. The wet slide of his tongue. The rough scrape of teeth over his throat. He hoarded each sensation like a miser with nothing to save but pence. It was good that he did, for John soon made his way upward again and claimed Sherlock’s lips in a searing kiss.

John took the lead this time. He cupped Sherlock’s cheek in one hand, softening his tangled grip in his curls and tilting Sherlock’s face forward. He nipped Sherlock’s bottom lip, grinned at the surprised, needy sound Sherlock made in reply, and kissed him deeper. John kissed him until every nerve in Sherlock’s body was set afire. Until every inch of him blazed and buzzed with pleasure.

They broke apart, just far enough for John to press their foreheads together. Sherlock could feel the too fast rush of John’s breathing against his jaw.

“Happy Birthday, Sherlock,” John whispered. Sherlock felt the words as much as he heard them. Felt them in the light brush of John’s lips when he shaped them with his mouth.

Before he could find the air to fill his aching lungs, made tight with shocked bliss, John pressed a kiss to his cheek.

“And welcome home."


End file.
